


Love which alters when it alteration finds

by hapax (hapaxnym)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author is addicted to italics/ellipses/footnotes, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a rubbish angel, Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Love Confessions, M/M, No Smut, Pining, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley, Self-Esteem Issues, War in Heaven (Good Omens), What's Love Got To Do With It, maybe? - Freeform, more tags as I think of them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:21:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22656190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapaxnym/pseuds/hapax
Summary: Crowley came right out and asked, “I guess that means that you… Uh. Don’t. Feel the same. Er. Love. That is. Me. Which is. Y’know. Fine. Ngk.”Crowley's confession goes over like a lead balloon.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 83
Kudos: 243





	1. Even to the edge of doom

Thinking about the whole thing later, Crowley realized that he should have seen it coming. But… well, that would have required some kind of recognizing _consequences_ , wouldn’t it? Even _introspection_ (ugfh, _feelings_ ), so very much _not_ his Thing. He was the spur-of-the-moment one, the make-it-up-as-we-go one, the keep-running-ten-feet-after-leaving-the-edge-of-the-cliff-like-a-cartoon-coyote1 one.

Now _Aziraphale_ was the long-range thinker. The planner. The worry-er, to be honest. _Aziraphale_ should have expected it. _Would_ have.

But Aziraphale couldn’t.

Because it was Aziraphale that the bastards broke, after all.

**

It was a few months after the ApoCollapse, and the erstwhile agents of Heaven and Hell had just begun to accept that maybe their respective former employers would actually leave them alone. Crowley was in the bookshop—as he usually was, most evenings—and there had been a few (that is, eight2) bottles of wine—as there usually were, most evenings—and their conversation had spiraled into a friendly argument—as it _always_ did, _every_ evening—this time, about what aspects the reluctant Antichrist should have left out when he re-set the world. They had both agreed on FaceBook, that was an easy one, and Aziraphale had been quite adamant about pineapple toppings on pizza, although Crowley didn’t really see the problem.

“Thursdays,” Crowley insisted. His legs were draped over the back of his favourite old sofa, his head leaning over the armrest, almost upside down.

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale leaned back in his armchair, swirling the wine in his glass.

“No, lissen up, angel. Thursh- _Thurss_ days. Wha’ss the point of ‘em? Now _Sundays_ , those belong to _your_ lot, and I s’pose Saturdays, too. Mondays, those are _ours_ , can’t very well have Monday mornings without _Mondays_. And Fridays… well Friday nights are absolute gold mines for our side, all _sorts_ of tempta-ta-ta- _tay_ shuns about, thass why Heaven keeps tryin’ to ruin Fridays. An’ Tuesdays, an’ We’nsdays, well, I suppose work’s gotta get done _sometime_. But _Thursdays_ ,” he concluded triumphantly, “no bloody _point_ , right?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Need Thursdays. Fifth day of Creation. “All creatures that move in the air and the waters.” Can’t have _ducks_ without Thursdays.”

“Nah, don’t buy that one,” the demon scoffed. “She did _all_ the animals on Friday. You _know_ She did! Why a diff’rent day for fishes and birds an’… an’ … _bats_ an’ all? Nope, for my money, She just took in a bit of a kip on Thursday, then split ‘em off to pretend She didn’t. I mean, tha’ss what _I_ would’ve done.” He made a wide sweep of his arms, almost pushing himself off the sofa.

“We-e-e-lllll…” Aziraphale didn’t exactly _concede_ the issue, but he didn’t argue it, which Crowley counted as a win. Then he perked up. “Chesterton! _You_ like Chesterton!3 Absolutely _essential_ Chesterton, Thursday is!”

“Ah-ah-ah...” Crowley sat up and wagged a finger. “I’ve read that one.” Well, he’d listened to the radioplay, but that surely counted. “ _Nobody_ was Thursday. Or, or, _ev’rbody_. Same thing.”

“I suppose…” Aziraphale pouted in a most un-angelic way. “But my dear boy… Thursday is _market_ day. Can’t do without _market_ day. When should I get biscuits, without Thursdays?” He sounded bereft.

Oh, _no_. The angel’s old-fashioned habits could be both annoying and charming, but Crowley wouldn’t have dreamed of depriving him of his accustomed nibbles. “All right, angel. We’ll keep Thurdsays, I mean, Thursdays. I _promisss._ Better. Have _two_ Thursdays, ev’ry week. _All_ Thursdays. Anything you like.”

“Oh, my dearest boy.” Aziraphale gave a slight maudlin sniff. “How _good_ you are to me.”

And just like that, the perfect evening was ruined.

“’M _not_ GOOD,” Crowley snapped. “Sssstop saying that.” Despite his best efforts, he could feel a ferocious Sober coming on.

“Of course you are,” Aziraphale burbled on, happily oblivious. “ _Good_ , and _nice_ , and ever so, so _sweet_ to me… It’s all right, my dear. Nobody’s … _listening_ , not any more. You don’t have to protect your reputation. Or mine.”

“’S’not _that_. Or,” he admitted, unwilling to ever lie to his angel. “Not only that. It’s… Look, Aziraphale, you don’t _get_ it. You _never_ get it. And I… I am so _tired_ of pretending.”

The other sat up straight, suddenly alert. He snapped his fingers, winced a bit and shook himself. His eyes were clear and direct. “All right, dear boy. I am listening. What is distressing you so?”

Oh, _bless_. Why did he never _think_ before letting _stupid_ _words_ fall out of his mouth? “’M not good. Or nice. Or—fuck me sideways— _sweet_. Not to you, not to _anyone_. Thassss…” He desperately wished for his shades. Or that he had never brought the topic up. Or that a merciful Armageddon would restart immediately and demand their complete attention; that would be perfectly splendid. “That’s not _why_.”

“If you insist.” Aziraphale’s voice was soft and terrifyingly gentle. “ _Why_ then?”

“’S’cos… ‘cos…” Crowley let out a breath he hadn’t really needed4, and fell flat on his face into the sofa. “ _CuzLUFFyawlrite_?” he mumbled into the cushions.

“Crowley…” There was an odd tension in Aziraphale’s voice. “I’m afraid that I did not… hear that correctly.”

“It’s because…” the demon croaked. He seized his heart and courage (and maybe a pillow) in both hands. “Because I _love_ you, all right? I fucking _love_ you, angel. I have _always_ loved you.”

Silence.

More silence.

And fine, that was _quite_ enough silence, thank you.

After all, it’s not like he had expected5 his angel to reciprocate his feelings. Crowley knew very well what he was: Fallen, demon, _foul fiend_. More importantly, he knew even better what _Aziraphale_ was, and how infinitely _above_ him the angel was. But he _had_ expected the other to be more … compassionate about the whole thing. Surely he _had_ to have known. He was a bloody _angel_ and (as Aziraphale never failed to remind Crowley _twist it in mate why don’t you?_ ) specifically attuned to detect love. Crowley had felt certain (all right, _reasonably confident_ ) that they could get past his stupid unwelcome adoration and maintain their friendship.

Crowley risked a peek.

Aziraphale’s face was as white as … as … a very white thing. ( _Sheet_ , the demon’s memory supplied a bit tardily.) Except for two small scarlet spots ( _bloodstained sheet_ ) high upon his cheeks. He didn’t look shocked. Or angry. Or even repelled.

He looked… he looked… he looked like someone might look if he thought his best friend was asking for his help to commit suicide. He looked like someone might look if he thought his best friend told him he was _stupid_ to choose protecting what he loved over running away.

No, he looked … even _worse_.

He looked _hurt_.

He looked _betrayed_.

He looked _devastated_.

“OH-SATAN-I-AM-SO-SORRY-ANGEL-I-DID-NOT-MEAN-IT-FORGET-I-SAID-ANYTHING” Crowley yelped in one high-pitched exclamation.

Aziraphale re-focused his attention. Smiled. Sort of. The smile did not come anywhere near his eyes.6

“No. No, quite all right,” he answered, still with that ghastly smile. “It’s … only to be expected. Er. What with you not needing to, to _repress_ your, your intrinsic nature any longer. You are … of angelic stock, after all. Originally.” He shook himself, just a bit, and the smile became slightly ( _very_ slightly) more genuine. “It is a … _good_ thing. To be sure. For you.” He blinked, several times. “Well _done_ , my dear!”

Go- Sa- _Someone_ help him, was Aziraphale _crying_?

“For _me._ ” Crowley’s voice was flat. “Not for _you_.”

“Of course it is. I am simply delighted for you.” Aziraphale was the worst liar Crowley had ever met.7 “Now if you will forgive me, I find myself ... unexpectedly tired, and think that I will … try to get some sleep. Sleeping. Which is a thing that I do.” He looked about and picked up Crowley’s sunglasses and handed them over, making little shoo-ing motions with his other hand.

Aziraphale was actually _kicking him out._ Desperately—how could things get any _worse_ , after all?8—Crowley came right out and asked, “I guess that means that you… Uh. Don’t. Feel the same. Er. Love. That is. _Me_. Which is. Y’know. _Fine_. Ngk.”

Aziraphale’s face _crumpled_. “Oh, Crowley. I _tried_.” He clasped his hands together in distress.

“Uh. Yeah. S’all right. I’ll … let myself out, right.”

The angel continued as if he hadn’t said anything. “Please believe me, I thought I did. I truly _believed_ that I loved you, for … oh, the longest time. And when I … realized that I did _not_ , I tried. I _tried so hard_ , Crowley. But I don’t. I _can’t_.” He was crying openly now, tears streaming down his face like rain upon the Ark. “I’m a _rubbish_ angel, I know it, _everybody_ knows it, even _you_... But I can’t.” He took a deep, gulping breath. “I … _won’t_. Of all the Almighty’s manifold creatures, _you_ are the last, the very last, entity that I could possibly _ever_ love.” Lifting his chin, “I am sorry. But I would like you to leave now.” A tiny, barely perceptible wobble. “ _Please.”_

Without realizing how it happened, Crowley found himself staring at the outside of the bookshop door. A door that had never been closed to _him_ before. A door that all but manifested GO AWAY in foot-tall blinking neon letters.

Well. That was certainly a _Fucking Thing._

**

1\. There was a possibility that Chuck Jones had met Crowley at some point. There was a reason his creation was called “Wile E” after all. Back

2\. 1 Peter 3:20 Back

3\. Actually, Crowley liked the Father Brown mysteries, since he always suspected that the detective was based on a certain Principality. Aziraphale absolutely denies it. Back

4\. But nonetheless seemed to have been holding for _six thousand years_. Back

5\. _Hoped_ , maybe. _Fantasized_ , definitely. Crowley was a bloody _expert_ fantasizer. Being the only demon to have an imagination was ... not always a good thing. Back

6\. Quite the opposite, in fact. The smile avoided Aziraphale’s eyes the way that a thief might avoid a police officer. Or the way a demon might avoid consecrated ground. Back

7\. Keep in mind that Crowley had been fooled by _GLaDOS_ , so this was really saying something. Back

8\. Oh, Crowley, you sweet summer child. Back


	2. An ever-fixed mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I give up, angel.” Crowley threw his hands up in the air. “How am I supposed to fix this?”_
> 
> An angel and a demon use their words. It doesn't help.

Well, _that_ went over like a lead balloon.

Crowley didn’t exactly know how he got back to his flat.1 He had been staring at the outside of Aziraphale’s door, resolutely shut against him; then he was sprawled on a throne in a dark sterile room, tumbler of amber whiskey in his hand. He assumed that the Bentley was involved somehow, good girl that she was. _He_ certainly had nothing to do with it.

_Of all the Almighty’s manifold creatures,_ _you_ _are the last, the very last, entity that I could possibly_ _ever_ _love._

No, if had been _his_ choice, he wouldn’t have come here. He would have gone to the nearest filthy dive, some place his angel had never been, some place his angel couldn’t even be imagined in, and drank every drop of cheap rotgut behind the bar.

Or maybe a dive of a different sort. He could see the Thames from his magnificent picture window. It wouldn’t take much to break through the glass2, to throw himself into an elegant swan-dive, no, a _snake_ -dive, falling, _falling,_ into the river, sinking to the bottom, coiling there for eternity, never needing to breathe, letting the cold and the dark lull him into an endless hibernation until the world ended for real this time.

No, he’d tried something like that before, and even a serpent’s frozen mind can dream ( _I have plenty of people to fraternize with, angel, I don’t need you_ ). Besides, the river water was _disgusting_.

So perhaps he should just take himself off to the M25, have a nice liedown in one of the clockwise lanes just by Junction 73, let traffic drive over and over and over him. He’d discorporate soon enough, and wouldn’t the Dukes of Hell be tickled to have him back for their revenge? They’d torture him, without doubt, or imagination, or _style_ , but still he’d scream, scream just maybe loud enough to drown out the endless echo in his head.

_You_ _are the last, the very last, entity that I could possibly_ _ever_ _love._

“Well, nobody _asked_ you to, did they?” he said aloud. “Bit _rude_ , innit?”

It wasn’t like Aziraphale to lapse in civility. Over the millennia Crowley had seen the angel be a right bastard. 4 He had seen him evasive, had seen him worried, had seen him frustrated, annoyed, angry, and afraid. On three memorable occasions he had even seen the full plenipotent Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, glorious in righteous wrath.5 But searching through all his memories of their encounters, even looking under the cushions and checking through the bins, he had never seen Aziraphale be _impolite_.

And he had certainly never seen Aziraphale be deliberately _cruel_. Yet there had stood his angel, cheerfully6 volunteering the information that on his personal scale of “lovability”, Crowley ranked beneath Hastur. Beneath Dagon. Beneath _Madagascar hissing cockroaches_.7

Something was wrong. Well, a _lot_ of things were wrong, and Crowley could admit that a fair number of them were maybe8 his fault, but that wasn’t _important_. The important thing was that something was wrong with _Aziraphale_. And Crowley wasn’t having with that.

**

“Oi! Aziraphale! Open up, already!”

It had been quite a shock to come back to the bookshop and have the door still refuse to budge. Crowley had taken for granted for centuries that he would always be welcome to saunter in, regardless of incomprehensible posted hours and a prominent CLOSED sign. He suddenly regretted the decision to forego his customary gift of treats.9 “You _have_ to talk to me! You made a _deal_!”

The door opened abruptly. Aziraphale stood in the entrance, very upright, a little pale. “I did no such thing. Our Arrangement terminated along with our employment.”

 _Oh, thank Someone, thank EVERYONE_. Crowley’s first fear had been that Upstairs (or possibly Downstairs) had found out about the body-switch and were issuing threats; but if the crisis had been triggered by some sort of convoluted plan to _protect_ the demon, Aziraphale would have let himself be discorporated before permitting Crowley to walk into a trap. Instead, he looked … not _fine_ , no, but mercifully still intact, still apparently willing to acknowledge Crowley’s existence, that was good enough, he could work with that.

“Not _that_ deal, Aziraphale. ‘ _Think of something or I’ll never speak to you again.’_ ” It wasn’t a very good imitation of Aziraphale’s voice, but good enough that he winced in recognition. “Well, I _did_ think of something, and it worked, and now you _have_ to speak to me.” Crowley grinned toothily. “You of all entities should have known better.”

“That’s not what I—” Somehow Aziraphale managed to stand even straighter. “Oh, very well. You had best come in.” He drew back a little, hands clasped behind him, and allowed Crowley to pass. An unspoken _Might as well get this over with quickly_ echoed all too loudly. Knowing someone else for so long and so well that you could read every twitch of their eyelids was not always pleasant.

Crowley had expected that the angel would lead them to the private backroom, but instead Aziraphale simply remained standing behind the barrier of his (not-for-) sales counter. There was something uncomfortably _familiar_ in his stance. It made Crowley remember the times when another ethereal presence would confront the Principality, loud and confident and affably threatening. “Azariphale… _angel,_ ” he blurted out, unable to maintain his self-imposed moratorium on the endearment for even ten sentences. “You can’t be _afraid_ of me!”

The angel’s ice-colored eyes had thawed slightly at the nickname, but he stiffened again at that. “Certainly not. Say what you came to say.”

“Angel, I’m not going to … _hurt_ you! I would _never_! We’re…” _friends_ , he had been going to say, but he wasn’t sure any longer, and if Aziraphale denied it now, what was Crowley ever going to _do_? “I …” he trailed off.

“You love me. You have already informed me of that. Very good.” Aziraphale _sounded_ calm, maybe speaking a little too fast, a little high-pitched, but Crowley was quite sure his fingers were twisting nervously behind his back where they couldn’t be seen.

“Right. Right. And you … don’t.”

“No.”

“I give up, angel.” Crowley threw his hands up in the air. “How am I supposed to _fix_ this?”

At the word “fix”, Aziraphale flinched noticeably.

“ _Please_. I don’t know _what_ it is that makes me more … _impossible to love_ than anything else, worse than Beelzebub, worse than Lucifer, worse than, than, _mildew_ , but I will do anything. _Anything_. So’s I can love you and you can love me and everything will be … _okay_ again. Just _tell_ me.” Crowley raked his fingers through his hair. “Tell me what to do and I’ll _do_ it.”

“Whatever makes you think,” Aziraphale responded between tightly clenched teeth, “that it is _you_ who requires … _fixing,_ ” he spat, “and not _me_?”

Crowley gaped at him. Then he shut his mouth, cocked his head, and lifted a finger to signal “one moment”. He slapped himself smartly across the face, grimaced in pain, shook himself, muttered “right, then, definitely awake”, and opened his mouth again. “Hello, _demon_?” He sighed. “Look, angel. The girls on the telly, the ones who chat, they always say, y’know, to ‘ _use your words_.’” He punctuated the phrase with finger-quotes. “So, yeah, I … word-ed, and I said a, a Thing, and it was apparently the _Wrong_ Thing, and now _EVERYthing_ ’s Wrong, and you are very clearly upset and unhappy and … _afraid_ of me, and I’m … ssssscared, and I don’t know what to _do_.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped. “Oh, I am so sorry. You are quite right, Crowley, I have been thinking only of myself, when this must all be … bewildering to you.” He pinched the bridge of his nose in a tired fashion, then gave Crowley the ghost of a smile. “Let me see if I can help, my … my dear.” He bowed slightly, and waved towards the backroom.

Crowley went straight for the sofa, but instead of sprawling, perched upright on the edge with his hands tucked between his knees. He was not going to do anything that could _possibly_ jeopardize this tentative rapprochement.

Something unreadable flickered across Aziraphale’s face, but he did not comment. He himself chose to lean against the edge of the desk, cluttered with precarious stacks of books and papers, rather than the comfy armchair he usually chose for their companionable evenings. “Again, I must apologize. Love … can be confusing, even _frightening_ , even when one has had an eternity to … adjust. I’m sure that you must be feeling quite … overwhelmed.”

“Overwhelmed. Uh. Yeah.” Crowley hadn’t had the faintest idea what Aziraphale was talking about, but he wasn’t going to interrupt now that they finally seemed to be getting _somewhere_.

“Yes. And though he was dreadfully wrong about … well, any _number_ of things, I personally find that the words of Paul on the topic to be … reassuring.” Aziraphale reached across the desk for a well-worn leatherbound volume, gilded pages positively bristling with interspersed bookmarks, ribbons, scraps of paper, and what looked suspiciously like an empty packet of McVitie’s Digestives. “I know that you are already quite familiar with the contents, but … would you mind …?”

“Eh, I mostly read for the funny bits.10 Go on, then."

The book fell open easily to a specific page, and Aziraphale’s voice took on a certain bell-like harmonic quality as he read: “ _Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy; love does not parade itself, is not puffed up; does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil; does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails_.” He was quiet for a moment, then returned to more normal speech. “Ah. H’r’hrm. Well. Does that clarify things?”

Crowley had been _very_ glad of his dark lenses for the past few minutes. He could not help but hear those celestial tones reciting “ _Aziraphale_ is patient, _Aziraphale_ is kind…” and all the rest, and he was pretty sure he was blushing. “Not a bit of it, actually.” He flapped a hand vaguely in his own direction. “D’you think that I didn’t know what the word _means_? That it’s all … _new_ to me?”

“Isn’t it, dear one? I had assumed that… well, you yourself said “demon”, and it is commonly held that … I didn’t quite know _what_ triggered it, mind you. Perhaps copying each other’s corporations? Or being exposed to the Heavenly atmosphere? Or simply no longer feeling the dreadful pressures from … Below? Whatever invoked your intrinsic angelic nature and … inspired you to … love me … was indubitably a very _recent_ … blessing.”

 _Blessing_. That caused the angel to say _inspired you to love me_ in exactly the same tones anyone else would have used for _infected you with a loathsome disease_. Crowley hissed, a little bit angry now. “Blessss it, angel! I’ve loved you for over _sssixx thoussand yearsss_!”

Aziraphale looked startled, then shook his head. “Oh no, my dear,” he said with absolute confidence. “I would have _known_. When someone “ _rejoices not in the wrong, but rejoices in the right_ ”… when one seeks above all what is _best_ for the other, despite any consequences to one’s own self …the sensations that love evokes really can’t be mistaken for anything else. And you … never gave off the slightest indication.” He frowned slightly. “In fact, I really can’t sense anything now. Forgive me, but are you _quite_ sure…?”

“AM I _SSSSURE_?” Crowley yelped, incensed. “What the what _what_ WHAT? D’you think I would _make thisss the_ ineffable _up_? D’you think I think thissss iss _funny_?”

“No, no, of course not!” Aziraphale made little soothing pats in the air. “No, I don’t think that you would, you’re not cru- _look_ , Crowley, I admitted that I’m a _dreadful_ angel, I probably don’t sense it because, because, because I don’t _want_ to, or … or …”

“Right,” Crowley subsided, dully. “Sssomething like that.” Then, a little curious, “So what’s it feel like, then? When you _do_ … “ _flashes of love_ ”, you said. Around Tadfield, remember?”

“It’s hard to put into words,” the angel replied. “It was like, hm, a little like a human parent, I suppose. Hovering around a fragile child, perhaps. Constantly checking in: _Are you warm enough? Cool enough? Does the noise from that highway bother you? Would you like a nice shower of rain?_ Like that.”

“Eww.” Crowley grimaced. “Can’t say I’ve ever felt _that_ , thank the Powers Beneath.”

“Adam was _human incarnate_ , remember? It’s … different, with angels. It’s more … automatic, I suppose. Instinctive.”

“Huh. And you love _all_ the angels, then? Even that wanker Michael? Even”—Crowley curled his upper lip—“the purple-eyed feather-pillock who shall not be named?”

“Gabriel? I suppose I must do. And they love me as well, of course.”

“Angel, they _tried to kill you_! US!”

“Well, yes. _Because_ they love me. Us. You too, of course. _All_ the works of the Almighty, but _especially_ Her very first creatures.” Aziraphale looked guilty. “I confess, that when she brought Down that Holy Water for you, my dear, I felt quite a bit _cross_ with Michael. I could tell that she loved you _so much_.”11 He shook his head sadly. “They must be suffering _terribly_ , believing that love _failed_. Poor dears! With what they knew, and what they thought they knew, what _else_ were they supposed to have done?”

Notes:

1\. not his _home,_ never his _home_ , his home was a bookshop that had cast him out, twice-Fallen now. Back

2\. It would have taken a great deal more strength than Crowley’s corporation possessed, and possibly a poleaxe. Building insurance companies were neither of Heaven nor Hell, but they weren’t _stupid_. Back

3\. near the Merstham Interchange, you know the one. Back

4\. Aziraphle would have been _mortified_ to know that he had a discreet fan club among the demons of the Fifth Circle; but not nearly as embarrassed as Crowley would have been if anyone learned that he had secretly signed up under the pseudonym @smol_snek Back

5\. Only one of those times had been at Crowley, and he had totally deserved it. Worth it, though. Back

6\. Even as he thought it, Crowley knew that “cheerfully” was both untrue and unfair, but when one is in the midst of a spectacular sulky self-loathing wallow, accuracy isn’t the first priority. Back

7\. In fact, Madagascar hissing cockroaches can make for affectionate (if outré) pets. Really. Go look it up.  Back

8\. Probably. Definitely. (Spoiler: they weren’t)  Back

9\. Even Crowley could figure out that, after a disastrous love confession leads a friend to toss you to the curb, showing up two days later with a box of gourmet chocolates and asking “Angel but WHYYYYYY?” trod perilously close to becoming That Guy. But surely a bag of pastries would have been acceptable. (Spoiler: it wouldn’t)  Back

10\. For example, there was a _hilarious_ joke about a fig tree in Mark’s Gospel, but the humans never got it.  Back

11\. It is an indication of how utterly gobsmacked Crowley was at this moment that it never crossed his mind to snark _What, were you jealous, angel?_ here. Even he could tell that in this context the question would have been… well, whatever the opposite of _funny_ was, that’s what it would have been. Back

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry, I know that I had said that this was already written, but in editing I realized that I had left a lot of Stuff out that I needed to unpack. So there's going to be another really angsty chapter, then a sweet and fluffy (I hope) epilogue.
> 
> The Scripture passage that is frequently referenced is I Corinthians 13:4-8. Both Aziraphale and Crowley would have probably quoted the original Koine Greek, but for the sake of making this fic readable I used various English translations. Aziraphale cites from the King James (Authorized) Version, because that's what is on his desk in the television show. Crowley cites mostly from the NIV, because of course he does.


	3. If this be error

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Aziraphale,” Crowley said. “That’s … monstrous.”  
>  “NO! No, it was _good _, don’t you understand, it was GOOD!”  
> _
> 
> War always leaves trauma behind; and sometimes those who seem unscarred are concealing the deepest wounds.  
> (Or, in other words, _whump_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually ready yesterday, but I didn't think that it was appropriate to post on Valentine's Day.

“You … you... “ Crowley gave up trying simultaneously to comprehend the angel’s apparently sincere regret and to remember that his own corporation possessed bones, and fell over sideways on the sofa. “You think it would have been _better_ if they had killed us?” he practically squeaked.

Aziraphale glared so witheringly that Crowley felt slightly comforted.1 “If I _did_ , it was certainly rattlebrained of me to go to such trouble to _prevent_ it!” he snapped. “My desire to spare my siblings in Heaven—and I suppose in Hell as well,” he added conscientiously—“from pain and fear doesn’t outweigh my duty to protect them from a _spectacular_ cock-up. That, after all, is at the very core of love, is it not?”

“Maaayybee…” Crowley agreed, grudgingly. _Stopping you getting into trouble_. _You have no idea how demeaning that is_. “But you’re not going to tell me that your back-angel-ward notions of “love” can stretch to cover premeditated _murder_. Even _humans_ don’t love like that!” he accused.

“No, they don’t. It is very sad.” For a moment, Aziraphale’s face showed every one of his six thousand years. “They are bereft, you see, of any intuitive understanding of what is best for each other. And so they commit the most horrific deeds _out of love_ , horribly misguided love of course, _believing_ that they are actually making things better. _You_ knew that, almost from the beginning. ‘ _None of these humans thinks they’re the villains_ ,’ you told me. ‘ _At least in Hell, we know what we are._ ’ So tragic.” His eyes were full of an immense grief. “But … fortunately … angels have been ‘ _shown a more excellent way._ ’”

Crowley, to his immense credit, did _not_ swear.

Aziraphale wrung his hands. “Crowley. I don’t … We’ve never … I don’t wish to pain you, but … do you remember? Anything? From … Before?”

“…before?”

“Before the War. _The_ War.”

Oh. _That_ Before. “Not much,” he admitted. “Bits and bobs. I remember … stars. I made stars. They were … they were _pretty_. And there was … singing. Lots of singing. Was … _nice_. Simple.”

“Just so. It was so very _simple_ to love each other. To want the _best_ for each other; because what could possibly be _better_ than to be what She had created us to be? To serve as we had been designed to serve? To sing. To … _make_.” Azariphale gestured gently towards the sofa, then back towards himself. “To guard and protect. To proclaim. To fight. To heal. It was … _easy_.2 Every day—well, there _were_ no days, She hadn’t created Time yet—but anyways, we would happily and eagerly encourage each other to better fulfill our innate purposes. And then…”

The angel was silent for so long it began to seem that he had said all he meant to say on the topic. “And then,” Crowley prompted, “the War.”

“Yes. The War.” Silence. “Did you… How much… Do you know _why_?”

“Not … really. S’awfully hazy, y’know. Doesn’t seem _fair_ , to be honest.” Crowley shrugged. “I seem to remember … asking questions.”

“Exactly,” Aziraphale nodded sadly. “Questions were asked.” He stood up and wandered away from the desk, looking at his bookshelves without seeing them. “She told us that she was going to create something new. _Different_. She called it—them— _human beings_. And She was going to build an entire, intricate, material world around them. We were all very excited. For so many of us, it seemed that we were finally going to have to the chance fully to experience … well, our _selves_. She told us that we were required… no, that we were expected… indeed, that we were to _be permitted_ to love them. That we should _love them as we loved Her_. It was … rather alarming, I must admit. But in a thrilling sort of way.”

“Then…” The angel bumped into his customary armchair, and sat down heavily. “Then the Adversary—but he wasn’t the Adversary then, he was Lucifer, the Lightbringer, splendid and radiant and so eager to make sure we would love these humans _properly_ —asked: ‘ _But what are they_ for _? What is their_ purpose?’ And … are you _certain_ that you don’t remember any of this?”

Crowley shook his head. “Angel, you don’t have to… look, I don’t need…” _Let me spare you this, please_.

“I think you _do_ need,” Aziraphale said gently. “It’s the key to everything, really. Anyway, the Almighty answered, ‘ _What are they for? They’re for_ love.’ And then She smiled, in that way that She _always_ does.3 And there the matter should have rested. But …”

“But it didn’t. Some of you”— _us_ —“kept _asking_.”

“Yes. There was dissension. And … rash words. And … well, I really do not wish to go into the details, but they were _most_ unpleasant. For … _everyone_.”

“For some more than others,” Crowley said tightly, and a spasm of pain twisted Aziraphale’s face.

“My _dearest_ …”

“Old news, angel.” More briskly “And the point is?”

“The point is … that love was no longer _easy_. Afterwards. It was a very … _anxious_ time, you understand. So many of us had somehow _rejected their purpose_ , and so suddenly! None of us who were still … well, we didn’t _understand_ , and then the senior angels, Michael and Uriel and Gabriel and Raphael and so on, they consulted with the Metatron, and they reminded us that we were beings of pure love, and loving meant … being _responsible_ for … keeping each other _on the right track_. Requiring each other to be _better_. And those of us who perversely chose _not_ to be better… who obviously were no longer even _capable_ of loving, not _properly_ … well, perhaps it would be … _best_ … if they were … they were … simply _not_.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said. “That’s … _monstrous_.”

“NO! No, it was _good_ , don’t you understand, it was good! _She_ said… they _said_ She said, that it was _very_ good! We had to … We _had_ to! And there was going to be the world, and, and the humans, it was all going to _happen_ , and we had to _love_ them, and we didn’t know _how_ , we had to, because She _said_ , and it was GOOD, because otherwise it would all _fall apart_!”

Crowley knew that he should argue, that everything the angel said, that the angel _believed_ , was wrong _wrong_ WRONG, but he couldn’t think, he couldn’t _word_ , not with the howling and the roaring and the shattering of the sky into a million million screaming shards…

“…Crowley…” from an immense distance he heard the angel saying his name, and he focused.

Aziraphale was still babbling urgently. “W-we didn’t _all_ … You have to understand, there was … _discussion_ , not debate, no, not an _argument_ , but there was _discussion_ , some of us4 said that maybe it wasn’t _over_ , that just because an angel seemed to have ‘ _rejoiced in the wrong_ ’ there was no reason it couldn’t be _temporary_ , although it might take a _very long time_ …”

“Angel,” Crowley said wearily, “shut it.”

Aziraphale shut it.

Time passed.5 Somewhere, in a very remote corner of the demon’s awareness, a small notion scurried across his mind— _should I be_ grateful _, Mother, that I was one of the fledglings You pushed from the nest to make their own way?_ —before scuttling back into a sturdy titanium box, padlocked, chained, and stamped DO NOT OPEN FOR AT LEAST ONE THOUSAND YEARS.

“All right,” Crowley said after a very uncomfortable silence had stretched a bit and worked out the kinks in its shoulders and perhaps removed a particularly annoying wrinkle from the heel of its sock. “Is there more?”

“Just … well, you probably know the rest. There was the Garden, and then there was, well, and then the rest of them mostly returned to Heaven, and I … didn’t.”

“Yeah, about that.” As long as they were going to spend a jolly morning reminiscing, Crowley was determined at least to satisfy his curiosity. “There were, lemme think, at least three of your rank in Eden? And probably more in reserve Upstairs. Why…”

“Why did I stay on Earth? You know why. It was, _is_ , my purpose,” answered Aziraphale, very much on his dignity. “To protect and guard.”

“Nah, any idiot can see _that_.” Aziraphale huffed, but Crowley ignored it. “Why did the rest of them _leave_?”

“Er. Yes.” The angel fidgeted in discomfort. “Well, you see… The Archangels had determined that … if the purpose of humans was _love_ , then that obviously meant that they were intended to serve the Almighty by… enabling us to complete _our_ purpose, as it were. _Your_ side—”

“There _is_ no more ‘ _my side_ ’and ‘ _your side_ ’,” Crowley growled, very softly. “ _Our_ side, angel, remember?”

“Yes, _now_ ,” and Aziraphale almost, _almost_ smiled at him, before he remembered and Crowley cursed silently. “But this was _then_ , and … Below clearly felt the same. That humans were to be used as _counters_. Souls destined for Heaven, souls snatched away by Hell. A way to keep _score._ And… once counted, they couldn’t be allowed to just … _wander about_ unsupervised. Someone had to, well, _stand guard._ And there were so many of them, and we expected there to be even more of them, because we were going to _win._ Until…”

“Game Over,” Crowley finished. He oozed himself back into an upright position. “But … _you’re_ an angel. And I’ve watched you with the humans since the Beginning, Aziraphale. _You_ don’t love like that. You’re _nothing_ like that.”

Aziraphile … cringed. “Crowley, I do know that you can’t _help_ it now, and I sincerely appreciate your reminding me of the ways in which I … fall _short_ of my purpose, but it is possible to … encourage improvement a little less _bluntly_.”

Oh, _Chr- crypts_ and _chrysales_ and _Christian Grey_ and all other creepy dead things. “I didn’t mean it like _that_. And … you were always on board with the Floods and the Plagues and the Big Ineffable Picture, I _get_ that. No matter what anyone said, no matter what _I_ said, you were … _steadfast_ , all right? And, uh, thwart-y. Very thwart-y. So surely you got, um, _points_ for that?”

“ _Love does not parade itself; it is not puffed up_ ,” Aziraphale said severely. “To boast that one is accomplishing one’s goal is to fail.”

“Yeah, well, _the perfect is the enemy of the good_ ,” Crowley retorted. “Also, _your only limit is you_ and _hang in there, baby_. Who d’ya think _invented_ motivational posters?”6 _And I’m getting pretty fucking sick of that Scripture passage_. “But are you telling me that when you … all the time you were out there being _nice_ , being _compassionate_ , being _kind_ ... that’s not loving humans _properly_?”

“We-e-ll, I always _thought_ ,” Aziraphale mused, “I thought that Heaven might know the purpose of _humanity_ ; but the purpose of _individual humans_? That’s a little unclear. More … wiggle room. And I _was_ made to guard and protect, so ... I thought that with _individuals_ , I should just help them feel … _safe._ A little more _comfortable_. Even _welcome._ So that, when they were trying to understand what was best for _themselves_ … they might be, I don’t know, more open to _Her_ designs. That’s all.”

“And instead of being _rewarded_ for it, you spent your millennia on earth being judged and belittled and, and _bullied_ by a pack of feathered _arseholes_.” Crowley could feel his fangs lengthen. “And they … they _gaslighted_ you into thinking that this was _lov_ e.”

“It _is_ love! You’ve just spent too much time away from ... away! You don’t remember how it _is_ with angels! How … how it will be … for _you_.” Aziraphale’s eyes were the apologetic blue of hydrangea. “How it _has_ to be.”

“Oi! Me! _Never!_ ” Crowley collapsed again. “Angel, that thug Sandalphon _gut-punched_ you!”

“Yes, the poor boy,” Aziraphale nodded. “You have to understand, Sandalphon’s particular gift is _loyalty_. He was created for Obedience. Can you imagine what would have become of him had he just _happened_ to have been standing next to one of your … _cohort_ … at the time of the Fall? I assure you that _he_ can, and _does._ Is it any wonder he cleaves so closely to Gabriel and the rest?”

“Yeah! And what _about_ Gabriel? He _terrifies_ you! You call _that_ love?”

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale explained patiently. “was created to be a _Messenger_. It is his _purpose_. Whenever he saw me, saw that I was … in danger of any … corruption, less than perfectly committed to serve, in any way _lacking_ … it was his _loving duty_ to proclaim it.”

“Proclaim my arse!”7 Crowley leapt to his feet, stalking towards Aziraphale. “I _saw_ how he behaved to you! He would _berate_ you, _insult_ you, _threaten_ you, all with that look of sanctimonious _concern_!” He knew he was being too loud, but the angel didn’t seem to _get it_. “He would scour over your assignments, your reports, even your corporation, looking for any little thing that wasn’t _perfect_ , any tiny ragged hole or, or _spot_ , and _yell_ at you, to, to…” He trailed off, horrified.

“…DO BETTER?” Aziraphale supplied, arching an eyebrow and lifting his chin.

“Ss’not the _ssssame_ ,”8 Crowley mumbled, collapsing back into the sofa. “Not the ssame _at all_.”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale soothed.

“’M _nothing_ like Gabriel.”

“ _Never_ , my dear. And … I don’t _mind_ ,” Aziraphale continued. “Well, not so _very_ much. When… when it’s _you_.”

“No. Nonono _no_ NO. Don’t. Don’t…” Crowley took a deep breath, off his dark lenses, and aim at every barrier he had ever erected to shield a fragile heart. Aziraphale had to _understand_. “’S… it’s like you _said_. For the _humans._ What you do. Make them. Safe. Comfortable. _Welcome_. S’wot… wot you do for _me._ Always. Ever sssince… since I slithered up that Wall. Don’t want you _better_. You _can’t_ be better. You’re _perfect_.”

“And yet…” Aziraphale’s voice was sad. “And yet, as soon as you said that you love me, you came here to _fix_ me.”

“Not you, _me_!”

“Oh, Crowley, be honest. Don’t begin lying to me _now_. You may have been … confused, but do you expect me to believe that your instinctive identification of my worst … _failure_ … that was an _accident_?”

 _fthARRGroglhhiiDMLft_. Crowley scrambled for the right words, but words were slippery buggers, words were _stupid_ , no, _he_ was stupid, _so_ stupid, he was the stupidest demon who ever stupided.9 “Angel, it’s _not like that_! I just thought, I _thought_ , you were so upset, I thought that if you could love me it would make you _happy_.” Crowley practically whispered the next part. “Only _ever_ want you to be happy.”

“Happy? You think it would make me HAPPY to love you?” Aziraphale wrung his hands wildly. “To want the _best_ for you, when I knew, I _know_ , that the best for a demon, any demon, the very best would be to … _restore_ to your angelic status? Or, if that wasn’t possible, if I was _wrong_ , the next best would be to … _cease to exist_? To be … put out of an infinite demonic misery?”

“Wasn’t … _miserable_ , angel.” _Not when I was with you_.

Aziraphale was beyond listening. “I confess that I thought I did, I _thought_ I loved you. At the start. That’s what I said to myself. I _congratulated_ myself, may She forgive me. ‘ _Look at me, enticing a demon into the Light_.’ But I wasn’t fooling anybody, not you, not even _me_ , not really. I barely _tried_. And when you asked me for Holy Water, and I believed… I believed … my first thought was ‘ _Oh, dear. Michael will be so_ pleased’ and I couldn’t, I _couldn’t_ , because I finally admitted that I … _didn’t_.” He gulped. “And I knew it was _wrong_. That I was failing, failing myself, failing _you_. So for decades, I _tried_. I tried so hard to love you. It … helped that I never saw you. But when… in the Blitz … and you … and I just _gave up_. I didn’t love you, I couldn’t love you, I absolutely _refused_ to love you, even if the Almighty Herself should command it.”

“But … _did._ Later. The _thermos_. And then you said… you said…”

“I did. Of _course_ I did. Because I didn’t _love_ you, so I _trusted_ you. And then… afterwards … you were so _gentle_. Kind.” Aziraphale shivered. “I was _afraid_. I thought that … it was happening. That you were becoming … _better_. That it was _my fault_. That you would … _leave me behind_.”

“Too … fast.”

“Yes. It was _awful_. But then I saw you again, with that ghastly haircut and that silly slideshow, and I was so _relieved_. Because … oh, my _dearest_. _That_ is what makes me happy.” Aziraphale lifted a hand, then seemed to think better of it. “ _You_ make me happy. _You_ , with your sly wiles and wicked ways. _You_ , with your ridiculous overelaborate temptations and melodramatic tantrums. _You_ , with your gorgeous golden eyes and blazing fiery hair and silky nightblack wings, slinking about indecently like sin in leather trousers.10  _You_ , with your new-fangled machines, dreadful bebop, inappropriate remarks. _You_ , cementing coins to the pavement, terrorizing pedestrians, fouling up communications. _You_ , laughing at my stories, giving me your desserts, enticing me to indulge in all the myriad pleasures this world provides. _You_ with your incessant questions with no good answers, and with your answers to never-asked questions. _You_ , here, in my bookshop, ever in my thoughts, always _always_ at my back and by my side…” His lower lip quivered. “I will _try again_. If you _want_ me to. But I can’t pretend it will make me _happy_.”

By this point Crowley was shaking, shaking so violently that he slid off the sofa to the floor. He crawled the few feet to Aziraphale’s armchair, knelt before him, and—summoning more courage than it took to face down Satan himself—grabbed the angel’s trembling, soft, _warm_ hands. “Angel, _don’t._ Lisssen. _Please_ listen to me. What… what do you _want_ to feel? For _me_ , I mean. _Tell_ me.”

“What do I _want_ to feel?” Aziraphale’s fingers clenched back painfully. “What I already _do_ feel. What I have _always_ felt. You _know_.”

“No. _Use your words_ , angel, remember? I used _my_ words and I fucked ever’thing up. S’what I _always_ do. Open my mouth and everything goes pear-shaped. I need to hear _your_ words, Aziraphale.” _Tellmetellmetellme…_

“Crowley…” Aziraphale glanced away. Looked down at their hands. Met Crowley’s eyes again. “Crowley, you are my _friend_. I am _fond_ of you. I feel … great _affection_ for you. I hold you _dear_. I _worry_ about you. I _respect_ you. I _esteem_ you. I _admire_ you.” He went on more confidently. “I … _like_ you. I _rely_ upon you. I _trust_ you. I _delight_ in you. I _enjoy_ you. I take such great _joy_ in you. I _rejoice_ in you.” The words tumbled out faster now, an avalanche of words. “I am _captivated_ by you, I _prize_ you, I _treasure_ you, I _cherish_ you, I, Heaven help me, I _want_ you. I want _YOU_.” He took a breath. “I had _thought_ … I had _sensed_ … that you felt … now that we’re free of our respective supervisors … that we _might_ … but that’s surely not possible, _now_.”

“Angel…” Crowley felt dizzy, disconnected, as if the only thing in the entire universe that was real was the heat of Aziraphale’s fingers clutched in his own. “Look at me. No, don’t look at me, _look_ at me. Ignore what I _said_ , I’m an idiot, what do you _see_?”

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes closed. Crowley could feel a pair of shining white wings unfurl, _almost_ in this plane, filling the room ever so faintly with a pearlescent glow, a comforting warmth, a welcoming peace…

Aziraphale opened his eyes again, a look of wonder on his face. “You … _don’t_ love me. You … _really_ don’t love me?”

“Angel, I don’t love you _so much_. Please. Let me show you.” The demon pulled one hand free, to trace Aziraphale’s mouth, barely brushing those pink lips with his fingers, so soft, so _soft_. “No _words_. May I … may I _show_ you?”

Aziraphale nodded.11

**

Notes:

1\. No, Crowley had no masochistic tendencies. Not at _all_. It had just been an incredibly weird couple of days, all right? And at least “Aziraphale is a little bitch” was a comfortably _familiar_ trope.  Back

2\. To be honest, it was easier for some than for others. “Singing” and “making” are all very well, but “guarding” and “protecting” and “fighting” and “healing” are pretty vague assignments when there isn’t anything yet to guard or protect or fight _against_. And as for “proclaiming”, when everybody already instantly and ineffably _knows_ whatever there is to be known—well, it’s no wonder that angels took to finding excuses to be very busy elsewhere whenever Gabriel came around. Back

3\. As if She knows something that you don’t. Which pretty much goes without saying, and is nonetheless entirely _obnoxious._.  Back

4\. At least _one_ , at any rate. Possibly more. The reader is certainly encouraged to think that there were _many_ more, who chose to keep silent because Reasons. Back

5\. It does that. Time is by far the _laziest_ member of any bardic circle.  Back

6\. To be honest, they were a originally an innovation of the Celestial Marketing Department, but Crowley cheerfully took credit for them in his reports. Both Heaven and Hell would unwittingly bring in samples of the other’s products as exemplary models. (Comic Sans, however was all on the humans).  Back

7\. Oooh, now _that’s_ a proper Temptation, Crowley, you have _no idea_.  Back

8\. If any readers are curious as to whether this unpleasant epiphany later caused Crowley to alter his gardening techniques, the answer is “of course not.” It’s not like he _loved_ his plants, after all; anyways, the plants were _fine_ , they were perfectly _healthy_ , just _look at them_ ; moreover, he knew what he was doing, _he_ was an immensely powerful immortal Spirit of Infernal Darkness, _they_ were just a bunch of leaves and twigs; also, Shut Up.  Back

9\. He wasn’t, far from it. For the record, the stupidest demon who ever stupided was Glumfibest the Bloat, who once took a bet to lick the Ninth Circle and was _still_ dangling by his frozen tongue into the Pit some thirty centuries later.  Back

10\. It is to be admitted that Crowley’s attention snagged a bit at _sin in leather trousers_ , but he really did listen to the whole thing.  Back

11\. Yes, I _am_ going to end this chapter here. Some things are nobody’s business but theirs.  Back


	4. Epilogue:  Time's Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Crowley.” The angel interrupted him, staring at a heavy, painfully-white envelope with an ornate golden seal that had suddenly appeared in his hand. “I think… please, I think that perhaps you best leave for a while.”_
> 
> _Oh, nonono. The demon stiffened, his tongue darting out as he detected the unmistakable stench of Grace. “Sssssince when doesss Heaven sssend polite notification of an impending sssmiting?” he hissed. “If you think I’m going to leave you undefended to those feathered wankersss…”_
> 
> _“I invited them.”_
> 
> Aziraphale and Crowley adjust to their changes in their relationship, and look forward to a new kind of Arrangement.
> 
> Much fluff, and a smidgeon of sweet revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaack! This was supposed to be up a week ago! Turns out that staying up past midnight scribbling for several days in a row is a Bad Idea for the immune-compromised.  
> But anyway, it gave me a chance to re-read the end of I Corinthians 13, and I had to totally re-write this chapter.  
> I hope this didn't hurt too much! Any comments and constructive criticism are gratefully received.

It wasn’t to be expected that things would immediately go back to normal between Aziraphale and Crowley, whatever “normal” meant for two semi-retired immortal human-shaped entities.1 Crowley didn’t like the way his angel would suddenly turn tense and skittish whenever their conversation turned to certain topics—well, that _was_ “normal”, in its way, but the Words-That-Must-Not-Be-Said were definitely different.

Fortunately, he soon hit upon the strategy of dredging his memory for some of the thousands of languages that the two of them had used over the millennia, many of which were forgotten by any other living being. Aziraphale adored the overstuffed kleptomaniacal word-hoard of English, but there was a certain relief in languages both human and celestial2 that divided up mental categories (especially mental categories of “Emotions, Unpleasant Implications Thereof”) in less- _fraught_ ways. Besides, it was entertaining when he caught the angel in an anachronistic conjugation.3

But for the most part, their relationship had become more, well, _lovely_ than the demon would have previously dared to hope. The bookshop, in apparent apology for locking its door to him earlier, seemed positively eager to contort itself to accommodate his presence. He pretty much never went to the Mayfair flat anymore, especially after Aziraphale miracled up a bright sunlit conservatory adjacent to the upstairs bedsit.4 Crowley was determined to show his angel how very much he _didn’t_ love him in every way he could imagine5—which of course meant positively burying poor Aziraphale in the little treats and gifts and attentions which the demon had been rationing himself for centuries, but also indulging every whim and passing fancy that crossed the angel’s mind, and quite a few that hadn’t.

But what left Crowley truly flabbergasted was that the one delight that Aziraphale obviously craved above all others was simply his _company_. He didn’t seem to mind--or even really care one way or the other--what they did, so long as they were _together_. The demon might be driving not-at- _all_ 'too fast' in his Bentley, or playing on his mobile, or even asleep on the ceiling; all that apparently mattered was that he was _there._ Crowley was awakened more than once from a nap by the feather-light brush of fingers on his cheek (or, as the case may be, a brief boop on a scaly nose). It was almost as if six thousand years of lonely caution had carved a Crowley-shaped hole in his otherwise perfect angel; the demon didn’t _understand_ it, but could only be stunned at his good luck at somehow being the right configuration.

More than touch, Aziraphale characteristically chose to demonstrate his feelings with words. Crowley ostentatiously grumbled and scoffed, but not so secretly stored up every syllable more fiercely than shag carpeting clung to glitter. For the past week or so Aziraphale had been experimenting with endearments, starting with the relatively modern standbys like ' _darling'_ and ' _sweeting';_ but he soon was reaching back in time to terms such as the Victorian ' _chuckaboo'_ , the Shakespearian ' _bawcock'_ , and the positively medieval ' _mamtam_ '6. Crowley would make a great show of rejecting each one7, partly to enjoy his angel’s disappointed pouts, but mostly to reap choicest morsels of an extremely well-read Principality’s literary vocabulary.9

Other than slowly exploring new dimensions of their relationship, however, the time freed up by the severance of their previous professional associations began to hang a little heavy. Aziraphale did not give up blessings and good deeds, of course; the overwhelming protectiveness, kindness, and all-around benevolence (with just a leavening dash of bastardy) that was so intrinsic to his nature could not help but bubble over at the most annoying moments. And Crowley, while glad to be free of the more distasteful demonic assignments, had no intention of foregoing the sheer entertainment of a stylish temptation or two.

Still, Aziraphale began to speak wistfully of a perhaps leaving the more onerous duties of bookselling to a trusted associate, while relocating his most particular favourite books in the collection10 to a cottage in the country, possibly the South Downs? Crowley, meanwhile, found himself lingering over travel websites on his mobile, and pointedly reading aloud restaurant reviews from far-off locales. Gradually an unspoken understanding solidified that they were cautiously negotiating a new sort of Arrangement.

Crowley was unaware, however, that Aziraphale had taken concrete steps to formalize his end until one morning—it happened to be a Thursday, of all days, demonstrating that She still had a peculiar sense of humour—when he was lazily sprawled on his favourite sofa, trying to decide whether to drink the coffee Aziraphale had thoughtfully provided, or give up and sink into the cushions until only the tip of his sharp nose was visible.

The angel suddenly appeared by his side. “What do you think of Anathema’s young man, pet?”

“I try not to, and”--Crowley’s showed his teeth in a disgusted grimace--“absolutely _not_ , won’t stand for it, won’t answer to it, not a bloody _pet_.”

“Oh, dear. I thought it rather charmingly casual, but...” Aziraphale fluttered his hands in a pacifying way. “As you wish. But concerning young Newton, do you think he might have any interest in managing a bookshop?”

“Eh. Thought he was into computers, or something?”

“Yes, that’s what he _says_ , but I rather get the impression from dear Anathema that he isn’t … very _proficient_ at them, and really, the shop only needs one for the taxes. As to the other,” and Aziraphale here smiled in a tender fashion that forced Crowley to beat back a blush, “perhaps … ‘ _dear heart_ ’?”

Crowley cocked his head, considering. Then shook it. “Nah. Sounds like something an allegorical lion might use. Don’t want to go _there_.”

“ _Oh!_ ” Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. “ _Lions!_ I hadn’t thought at all… I have any _number_ of Aspects, and several of them have their own delightful means of signaling affection!”

_Bloody Heaven._ “If you think that I will put up with, even _once_ , any attempt to roar, or, or _trumpet_ at me, angel—” Crowley began, mock-threatening.

“ _Crowley_.” The angel interrupted him, staring at a heavy, painfully-white envelope with an ornate golden seal that had suddenly appeared in his hand. “I think… please, I think that perhaps you best leave for a while.”

Oh, _no_ no _no._ The demon stiffened, his tongue darting out as he detected the unmistakable stench of Grace. “Sssssince when doesss Heaven sssend polite notification of an impending sssmiting?” he hissed. “If you think I’m going to leave you undefended to those feathered _wankersss…_ ”

“I invited them.”

“You _wot_?”

“I _invited_ them. I have …business to discuss.” Aziraphale lifted his chin. “But … well, they won’t be best pleased to see _you_ here.”

“Angel. They must _know_ by now that I … that we …” Crowley trailed off. Words were _Aziraphale_ ’s forte, not his.

“That we stand together as one, of course. But I don’t think it strategic, shall we say, to, er, _rub their noses in it_.” He drew himself up to his full height. “Just because they believe Holy Water to be ineffective doesn’t mean that they cannot access _other_ means to … _hurt_ you, my own.”

_Stand together as one_. Was Aziraphale _suggesting_ … surely he didn’t _mean to imply_ … Crowley’s last brain cell snagged on ‘ _my own_ ’ and promptly gave up. “ _Ngk_.”

Aziraphale seemed to misunderstand. “I shall NOT permit that.”

“Angel …” Crowley pulled himself together. To suggest the slightest doubt in the Principality’s ability to protect would be deeply hurtful, he realized, and therefore _unthinkable_. “Just … you know how _strong_ you are, yeah? Stronger than anyone I’ve ever met. And … _perfect_. You _know_ , all right? Don’t … don’t let them tell you any different.”

Aziraphale gave him a clipped little nod. “I … understand. But they shall be here at any moment. Please, _do_ go.”

So Crowley went.

But he didn’t go _far_. There was only so much he was willing to do to demonstrate faith in his angel. Nobody was going to notice a smallish black snake providing a master-class in lurking in the shadows atop the bookshelves, would they?

When the Archangels arrived, they didn’t bother with the front door like any decent customer11 would, oh no; they simply _materialized_ out of a shimmering beam of light, right in the middle of the shop, like they _belonged_ there. _Rude much?_

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale greeted his erstwhile supervisor respectfully, but not humbly. He remained standing very straight, his hands clasped loosely behind him. “Sandalphon. Thank you for your prompt response.”

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel responded, perhaps a bit more heartily than was justified, considering their last encounter.12 “So, have you finally reconsidered? Are you ready to repent?”

Aziraphale studied the Archangel evenly “I do have much to repent for, I suppose.”

_What?_ Crowley nearly slithered into the light. _No no no. Do not interfere._ Trust _the angel._

“Over the millennia, I have not … protected and guarded the humans given into my care— _our_ care—as well as I ought. I have not been … true to my nature.” Aziraphale lifted his chin a little more. “I have sought forgiveness from the Almighty for my failings. And if I stand in _Her_ grace”—and here the angel snapped out his wings, manifesting in this earthly plane all their brilliant pearly luminescence, brighter than the very Gates of Heaven, with just the barest suggestion of a thousand thousand eyes glinting in the aether beyond—“I think I need not concern myself for any others.”

_Oh, you_ magnificent _bastard_ , Crowley sighed, deeply appreciating his angel’s _panache_.

“Well, er, of course,” Gabriel, and now he _did_ step back a bit. “But what _did_ you want to talk about, then?”

“I merely wished to inform Heaven that this location,” and here Aziraphale swept out an arm to indicate the entirety of the bookshop, “which has served as my, er, base of operations, as it were, shall soon be reverting to _human_ oversight. _Uninvolved_ humans. I would not wish for there to be any … _mistakes_ made, in an effort to … _influence_ … me.”

Sandalphon started forward at this point, but Gabriel stayed the other Archangel with an impatient hand. “Are you suggesting that you are willing to undertake future … _missions_ … on Heaven’s behalf? In exchange for our leaving this place alone?”

“I might _consider_ acting. Perhaps. In accordance with my own judgment.” Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “But yea or nay, I _will_ protect and guard the innocent. And I _will_ know if those who are … dear to me … are in any way threatened.”

_Oh,_ there _was his soft angel. Soft as a_ hurricane. _Soft like a bloody_ tsunami.

Sandalphon interjected nastily, “And what about your pet snake?”

“The Serpent of Eden is no-one’s _pet_ ,13” Aziraphale answered, each word chipped out of ice. “If a certain demon has cast even the Princes of Hell into confusion, I cannot see any call for Heaven to interfere _._ ”

Sandalphon glowered.

Both Aziraphale and Gabriel ignored him. 

The latter levelled his best intimidating glare. The Principality kept his own eyes steady and unafraid. “I will … report this information my … _our_ … siblings,” Gabriel eventually capitulated.

Aziraphale nodded, not giving an inch. “Just so.”

Crowley couldn’t stand it anymore. His angel was _splendid_ , he didn’t _need_ any help, but Crowley would be blessed if he kept silent at this point. _We stand together as one_. Yeah, time for a little gratuitous nose-rubbing.

He slithered down the shelves, his snake-form swelling to its full length until he stood upright beside Aziraphale, flaring a nicely-threatening crimson hood manifested on the spur of the moment. He then transformed into a human-like shape ... but a carefully selected version, one he rarely adopted. He wanted those _arsehole_ Archangels to be unable to deny their common origins; but also to be uncomfortably reminded of what he (and by implication, _any_ angel) might yet become. He selected his most conservative outfit (not coincidentally, a midnight mirror to Gabriel's) to dress this most elegant, beautiful, _tempting_ aspect: almost-but-not-quite the angel he once had been, fair and terrible; his flaming hair tumbled to his shoulders, a glimmer of scales (red as live coals, black as the void) beneath starlight-pale skin, and serpentine eyes molten gold from edge to edge. Not above stealing a stylish gesture, he _snapped_ out wings of gleaming obsidian, just as he casually reached out for his angel’s hand.

Aziraphale took it.14

“Greetings, Messenger of the Almighty,” Crowley intoned, on his best behavior. “Greetings, Twin to the Voice.”

“Oh look,” Sandalphon sneered in reply. “It’s Aziraphale’s whipped demon.”

_And so much for being polite_. “Are we into whipping now?” Crowley wondered. “I’ll have to follow your Instagram.”

“Shut _up_ , you fool,” Gabriel said to Sandalphon, in what he probably thought was a whisper. “Greetings, foul fiend.” _Okay, can’t really quibble with that form of address._ “Our business was with the Principality Aziraphale. You have no interest here.”

Crowley said nothing, but merely raised an eyebrow and looked at the hand clasped firmly in his own.

“It doesn’t matter what you think you’ve wheedled out of that soft idiot,” Sandalphon (alas!) did _not_ shut up. “He knows nothing of Heaven’s secrets.”

“I don’t need to _wheedle_ ,” Crowley growled, “when your bloody _gossipmonger_ over there,” he jerked his head towards Gabriel, “can’t resist blabbing to the whole world whatever he thinks he knows.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly; not in reprimand, just a reminder not to become distracted. Crowley almost melted at the immense _trust_ Aziraphale was gifting him. _Almost_ , because, bless it, these fuckers had been hurting his angel for _thousands of years_ , they tried to _obliterate_ him, and he was _not letting this go._

“Heaven has no need of secrets,” Gabriel said pompously. “Our weapons are known to all. ‘ _Purity, knowledge, patience, and kindness;_ _truthful_ _speech_ _and sincere love._ ’ Hell cannot prevail against these. Hell cannot even _understand_ any of these.”

Crowley smiled. It was not a _nice_ smile. “Oh, Hell knows _all about_ your weapons,” he said. “Hell _relies upon_ your weapons.” He let the Serpent’s power trickle into his voice. _Nobody_ was better than Crowley at ferreting out another’s deeply hidden desires and fears and _doubts_ and twisting them to his own ends; he was a bleeding _professional_ , he had the commendations to _prove_ it. “Knowledge. Patience. Truthful speech. _Love_ ,” he purred. “Hell could accomplish _nothing_ without them.”

“And what would a _demon_ know about love?” Sandalphon sniggered in contempt.

Crowley’s smile grew wider. Oh, he could _taste_ the fear on this one. “Are we not _brothers_?” he countered. “Do you not believe that I _also_ can see what is …” He flung his free hand in a wide embrace and permitted his tongue to split, just a bit, as he hissed, “ _besssst_?”

“What is _best_ ,” Gabriel said, in the assured tones of someone who was convincing only himself, “would be for you to accept that Heaven is going to _win._ So has it been said. So has it been _foretold_. So is it _known._ ”

_Aaaaaand SNAP!_ The demon forced down his glee and affected an air of grief. “Perhaps. But…” he placed his hand over his heart, “This victory is assured only for the truly ... _perfect_." A graceful flip of his hand towards the taller Archangel. " _As for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end. For now we know only in part, and we prophesy only in part; but when the perfect comes, the imperfect will come to an end_ ,” he quoted. “How tragic that _all_ are guilty, _all_ have fallen short…”

“Yes, well, very _touching_.” Aziraphale cut in dryly. He had obviously taken pity on the faint hint of panic in the eyes of his fellow celestial beings. A shame that Crowley wouldn’t be able to twist the knife a bit more, but his angel was sometimes too compassionate for a proper bit of fun. “Sobering thoughts for us _all_. But if you’re _quite_ finished, Crowley?”

“ _Never_ finished, angel,” Crowley said lightly. “Just want to remind our _siblings_ that, as they say, _Love never ends_.” He kissed the tips of his fingers in an old-fashioned farewell. “Laters, my darlings. Stay _good._ ”

“Indeed. Gabriel, Sandalphon. I look forward to Heaven’s response.” Aziraphale slid his eyes to his demon; and _oh my, was that a demonic twinkle in his eye?_ “Mind how you go.”

/END

1\. mostly dining, drinking, arguing, and generally faffing about. Back

2\. Crowley shouldn’t have been surprised that Aziraphale was passably fluent in a couple of infernal languages as well, nor that he was eager to learn more. Personally, the demon despised such noisy and clanging means of communication, despite the advantage that trying to say Certain Things was simply _impossible_. Aziraphale finally gave up when he discovered that every adjective applied to any sort of edible was one of several finely shaded gradations of “muck”. Back

3\. Just _try_ to argue about the relative merits of rival web-browsers in Akkadian—although Crowley had to admit that his clever angel made a surprisingly cogent case for Firefox.  Back

4\. which _also_ saw a lot more use than it had in the previous centuries. Back

5\. and, as has been established, Crowley had a _prodigious_ imagination. For details, I refer you to the voluminous archives of this site.  Back

6\. “Absolutely _not_ , angel. Not the fucking fourteenth century.”  Back

7\. Ruling out, for example, anything food-related (‘ _honey_ ’, ‘ _muffin_ ’, and ‘ _pudding_ ’ were among the angel’s first efforts)8, on the grounds that Aziraphale’s relationship with desserts was frankly too _pornographic_ for Crowley to feel comfortable inserting himself into as a third.  Back

8\. “But ‘ _dove_ ’, ‘ _bunny_ ’, and ‘ _flitter-mouse_ ’ aren’t food!” “ _Snake_ , angel, remember?”  Back

9\. “ _Hearts-gleam_ ” made Crowley fall off the sofa the first time he heard it, and had to be proscribed on the ground that it shut down pretty much all of his mental faculties.  Back

10\. Readers should note that in due course, the new managers of the shop needed to re-stock the shelves entirely from scratch, since Aziraphale had absconded with everything except a stack of secondhand Book Club editions and a signed copy of _The Da Vinci Code_ that Crowley had once bought him as a joke.  Back

11\. Or a less-than-decent demon.  Back

12\. Or, really, their last several hundred encounters. But considering that as far as Gabriel knew, Aziraphale was willing to spit _Hellfire_ in his general direction, perhaps he shouldn’t have been standing quite so close.  Back

13\. The angel _may_ have cast an apologetic glance towards his top shelves here. Or perhaps he was simply rolling his eyes.  Back

14\. Of _course_ he took it, Crowley _knew_ that he would take it; but he was also almost pathetically grateful that Aziraphale did, Crowley would have looked like a utter _knob_ if he hadn’t.  Back

**Author's Note:**

> I am SO SO SORRY, this was just supposed to be a bit of fluff, but obviously turned into … something else.  
> The work and chapter titles are from Shakespeare's Sonnet 116 http://www.shakespeare-online.com/sonnets/116.html, which is thematically relevant, if that helps.
> 
> HOLY CROW - I just noticed this thing is over two thousand hits. I am gutted. THANK YOU ALL.


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